


The fever, the focus

by KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Crying Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Genital Piercing, Kissing, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Orgasms, Piercings, but it's not any of the characters, in which there is a death, mention of self harm, mentions of a case, showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>10 innocent lives he had failed to save.</p><p>Each new addition was a curse to Sherlock; his brain so full of facts and science. Logic and intelligence said that he shouldn’t have cared for those people he had failed. Mycroft had always insisted that caring wasn’t an advantage but Sherlock couldn’t feel that way; he had argued with John that caring wouldn’t help those people dying but the dead haunted him. He dreamt of their glazed eyes and cold skin, reaching out to touch him as he slept whilst silently blaming and judging him for his failure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fever, the focus

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock remembers every innocent life taken when he doesn't solve the puzzle quick enough. He has a piercing to mark each one as a penance. John discovers his secret and deals with it the best way he knows,
> 
> TW for cutting mentions
> 
> All experiences are my own including the self-harm description. My partner has the piercings so those are our shared experiences,
> 
> Beta'd by [Sherlockholmesconsultingvampire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire/pseuds/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire) who is amazing. Title is taken from Brand New's Sic Transit Gloria...Glory Fades.

Sherlock pulled his trousers back into place and winced as the thin, specifically chosen fabric of his underwear brushed against his penis. He shimmied from the shiny chair which looked like a doctor’s examination table and nodded at the tattooed man in front of him. The pair had become acquaintances since Sherlock started to frequent this particular establishment, and neither man felt it necessary to indulge in conversation outside of what Sherlock expected as a client. Slipping a few notes into the man’s hand, Sherlock righted himself before nodding a final time and leaving the room, down the red painted staircase and out into the bright sunshine of London’s Camden.

It ached more than he remembered and Sherlock found himself walking carefully to ensure he didn’t cause any friction against his sore skin. The other members of the public didn’t seem to observe anything unusual about the detective who grimaced with every nudge of elbows or bags against his body. He wanted to go home and crash into his bed, he wanted to be supported by John and forced to eat tedious food and discuss boring TV shows before John finally bullied him into sleeping knowing that Sherlock hadn’t slept whilst they had been on another of Lestrade’s cases. Sherlock’s heart pounded as he remembered the look of absolute horror and terror in the young girl’s face as the suspect grabbed her roughly, holding her to his chest and pulling a blade from his pocket to hold against her throat. Sherlock had silenced his deductions, no longer wanting to provoke the man into doing anything to hurt the innocent girl who had been caught up in something unexpected. John and Lestrade had stepped in, pleading with the man to let the girl go. They promised that Lestrade would be lenient and would help him as much as he could despite the fact the suspect was accused of murdering a whole family.

The detective could only watch as the outcome seemed to happen in slow motion; the suspect had become spooked by a noise from behind him. Lestrade had called in SWAT and they had surrounded the man but hadn’t been aware of the creaky floorboard. The suspected murderer had flinched, pulling the blade across the girl's throat, slicing her arteries before dropping her to the ground and fleeing. Lestrade and his team had opened fire, killing the man instantly as John rushed forward in an attempt to stem the bleeding in vain. The girl had been paler than any human Sherlock had ever seen; her eyes had rolled back into her head and her hand had slackened its grip on John’s trousers, falling to the floor with a dull thud.

John looked at both Sherlock and Lestrade shaking his head. He closed the girl's eyes and looked over her silently for a moment before turning back and standing with Sherlock, uncaring of the blood which dripped from his hands and over his shoes. Sherlock had blinked, clearing his vision before looking at John and fleeing from the room as his brain screamed angrily at him. He had been too slow, too pathetic and bogged down with emotion and sentiment for John. They had stopped to allow John to have breakfast that morning; a normal and reasonable detour from the case but Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that if he had ignored John’s rumbling stomach then he could have solved the case faster and forgone the loss of another innocent life.

10 innocent lives he had failed to save.

Each new addition was a curse to Sherlock; his brain so full of facts and science. Logic and intelligence said that he shouldn’t have cared for those people he had failed. Mycroft had always insisted that caring wasn’t an advantage but Sherlock couldn’t feel that way; he had argued with John that caring wouldn’t help those people dying but the dead haunted him. He dreamt of their glazed eyes and cold skin, reaching out to touch him as he slept whilst silently blaming and judging him for his failure.

He had needed an escape; a way to deal with the pain yet remember the reason he had taken on consulting work. He didn’t care for the prestige ( _although granted, it was nice)_ and he certainly didn’t do it for the money or the fame. He wanted to help people and stop the mind-numbing tedium of life. The drugs had helped at first, they took the edge off the guilt and shame but soon he was addicted and a wreck. Lestrade had threatened never to let him work with the Yard if he didn’t get himself clean so he had gone to rehab after reluctantly asking Mycroft for help. His brother had sighed sadly, disappointment etched on his face as he made the call to the best private clinic in the country and delivered Sherlock there himself. The younger man had ranted and raved, attempted to escape and bully his way out of the building but the staff were good. They expected trouble and never let Sherlock get his own way regardless of his threats.

Sherlock blinked away the haze of memories and realised he was standing outside Baker Street; his mind having instinctively moved his feet in the direction of home. He opened the door and climbed the stairs, slipping off his coat and jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack before walking into the living room where John sat in his chair reading his latest terrible sci-fi novel.

“You alright?” John asked with a soft smile.

“Hmm? Yes. Fine,” Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave. “Tea?”

John raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Yeah… cheers.”

Sherlock turned and walked to the kitchen. Filling up the kettle, he set it to boil before preparing two mugs with teabags whilst staring out of the window over the dreary rooftops. John shuffled around behind him but he paid no attention as the kettle clicked, signalling that the water was hot. Sherlock poured, added milk and sugar and walked back to John. The two men smiled at one another before Sherlock carefully walked to his chair and gingerly sat onto the seat.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John asked softly.

“I’ve already said I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped before taking a sip of his tea.

“Why are you walking like that?” John nodded towards Sherlock’s midsection, causing the detective to frown.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve shit yourself,” John chuckled. “Or you have a bomb in your back pocket… you don’t have a bomb, do you?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled in response.

“You never know,” John laughed. “You are walking strangely though.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock replied, before placing his cup on the coffee table and standing up. “I’m going to bed.”

“Oh. Alright, goodnight,” John nodded, yawning and stretching himself despite it only being three in the afternoon. “I might nap too.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, instead, he walked to the bathroom and stripped his clothes before turning the shower on and waited until the ancient pipes sent forth hot water. Stepping under the spray, Sherlock sighed and scrubbed at his skin before lifting his face to take the majority of the stream. His body ached now, the adrenalin of the case and the misery of the outcome had simply dulled to a distant throb along with the soreness of his skin below the waist. Sherlock looked down and smiled at his newest addition, another silver ring which adorned his testicles beneath the other five.

He had decided to use piercings as his own personal penance for missing the vital clues to save innocent lives. The sting of the needle through his skin was like a pin to a balloon, sending the bottled up pressure dissipating into the atmosphere as another shiny trinket was added to his body. Along with six piercings along his scrotum ( _known in the business as a Hafada ladder),_ he also had a frenulum ring, a Prince Albert and two nipple rings all in matching silver which sparkled against his pale skin. Sherlock ran his hands over his nipple piercings and tugged them slightly, they had been the most painful surprisingly. The genital piercings had been a piece of cake compared to having both nipples done ( _At the same time to represent the twins who had died)_ and it had taken a long time for the holes to heal sufficiently to not cause pain as he touched and moved them.

His hands moved to his cock, the newest addition fit perfectly in line with his others and Sherlock bent in an attempt to see how his collection looked when John entered the bathroom and stared.

“I… Er… sorry,” John stammered, looking at Sherlock’s face then across his pale skin to his bollocks and back again.

“What?” Sherlock snarled. “Come to laugh at the freak?”

“No I… I have absolutely no idea what I came here for,” John admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I understand why you were walking funny now.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Sherlock shouted, his fist connecting with the bath tiles sending two into the bathtub and cutting open Sherlock’s big toe. The detective seethed at the universe whilst watching the blood circling the drain in the shower stream.

“Come on, I’ll help you get cleaned up,” John said softly, offering his hand to Sherlock who glared.

“I am quite capable, you know,” Sherlock growled threateningly. “I’m not an imbecile.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, his eyes lowered to the floor. “Don’t shut me out. I want to help.”

“You can’t, John,” Sherlock scoffed dismissively. “Nobody can.”

* * *

 

John helped Sherlock limp into the bedroom after wrapping half a roll of toilet paper around Sherlock’s foot to ensure that the blood didn’t smear across the floor. Lifting his leg, John ignored his best friend's nudity and rested Sherlock’s heel on the top of his bedside table with a warning to keep it elevated. Sherlock nodded silently; the lethargy of two days without sleep combined with the shock of the day left him dazed and pliant as John scurried to the kitchen to grab his first aid kit before returning to Sherlock’s room. The detective had managed to cover his genitals with his towel but his chest was bare, allowing John’s gaze to creep over the shower flushed skin.

“This is where you disappear after cases then?” John asked, carefully taking out the latex gloves and snapping them on before reaching for Sherlock’s foot and putting it carefully on his lap. The doctor looked over the cut and wiped away the bleeding, realising it would need a few stitches to close the deep gash.

“Yes,” Sherlock shrugged, he didn’t feel like arguing and it would be pointless anyway.

“Why?” John asked, pulling out his stitches and warning Sherlock that it might hurt. Sherlock shrugged and nodded he understood before taking a deep breath in.

“I like it,” Sherlock rumbled.

“Really?” John asked a look of suspicion marred his features but he stayed silent. “So it’s just vanity then?”

“You style your hair and date vacuous women, to give yourself a boost,” Sherlock replied scathingly. “I do this.” He gestured towards his crotch.

John didn’t respond to the angry remark and focussed on the long, pale toes of his flatmate. Finishing the stitches, he wrapped the appendage in gauze before wrapping a bandage around the entire area and looking at the sad face of his best friend.

“I had a friend at university,” John started, only to be interrupted by Sherlock scoffing.

“Oh, are we sharing now?” Sherlock grumbled. “Shall we have a sleepover? You can plait my hair and tell me ghost stories.”

“Are you going to be a complete dick all night?” John asked frustrated before taking a deep breath. “I had a friend who found it very hard to deal with stress and anxiety. She would become so overwhelmed with everything that it seemed impossible to think or do anything.”

Sherlock quieted and looked down at his hands as John continued to speak. “She used to cut herself on her arms and upper legs. Over and over again.”

“Not uncommon in teenagers,” Sherlock added.

“She explained it to me once,” John said sadly. “She told me that it was as though her body was tight and every nerve was alive. She couldn’t eat or sleep, she couldn’t focus and the only way to turn it off was to cut herself. She said it was like a pressure release like when you let air out of a lilo.”

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably; his heart was pounding loud in his ears as he listened to John’s story and the similarities to his own coping mechanism.

“You can always talk to me, Sherlock,” John whispered sadly. “I know we don’t discuss emotions or feelings but I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Piercings or not, if you’re doing it to hurt yourself I don’t want you to do it alone.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip quivered traitorously and his eyes filled with tears as he stared at his hands again. John had a peculiar way of seeing directly into Sherlock’s psyche which always left the detective slightly unsettled and wide open to his best friend.

“I can’t sleep,” Sherlock muttered, a single tear slipping down his cheek. “They are there.”

“Who?” John asked.

“The people I failed,” Sherlock replied with a choked off sob. “They blame me.”

“Oh Sherlock,” John whispered, a lump forming in his throat as he looked over at his friend looking unbelievably vulnerable and young. “Nobody blames you. You can’t protect everyone from the bad people of the world.”

“What use is being a genius if I can’t help people?” Sherlock asked, his eyes wide and his damp hair being pulled by his callused fingers. “I’m just a fraud.”

John grabbed his friend and pulled him into his arms. Sherlock was still naked and slightly clammy with either sweat or shower water but John didn’t care as he rocked Sherlock’s sobbing body in his arms and made soft soothing sounds. Sherlock cried harder than he had for a long time; the death of Redbeard was the last time he had felt heartbreak similar to this. He cried without shame or embarrassment, surrounded by the scent of John which calmed his fraying nerves.

“That’s it. There you are,” John smiled, stroking Sherlock’s curls from his forehead. “Shhh now, take some breaths for me.”

Sherlock followed John’s instructions without thinking; his lungs expanded and eventually, his sobs slowed until Sherlock lay exhausted and spent in the circle of his flatmate's arms. John shuffled further up the bed until he was lying with his head on the pillow, with Sherlock resting in the crook of his arm and his raven curls resting on John’s chest. John hummed lightly and stroked up and down Sherlock’s spine, watching as the detective nodded off to sleep with tiny hiccups of sobs.

* * *

 

John awoke a few hours later to darkness; his shoulder was sore from being beneath Sherlock but he didn’t have the heart to move as the detective breathed deeply and gave an occasional low snore. John smiled down at his best friend and felt his heart swell in devotion to the strange man. Yes, he was annoying and frustrating and could be rude but he was also loyal and sweet and unbelievably sensitive as John had discovered that day. John leaned over to the bedside table and flicked on the light in an attempt to discover the time; it was past midnight and although John was still sleepy, he desperately needed the toilet and a stretch. Pulling his arm from beneath Sherlock was a challenge but John moved nimbly and released himself from Sherlock’s weight before rushing to the loo, washing his hands and returning to the bedside. Sherlock had turned onto his back with one arm above his head whilst the other rested on his lower stomach and the towel which had been covering Sherlock’s genitals had fallen away onto the floor, allowing John a full access look at his friend’s naked body.

Sherlock was pale, almost like a marble statue except for the auburn hair which lined his armpits, navel and groin. John’s eyes lingered on the silver rings which adorned Sherlock’s cock and balls as well as his nipples. The frenulum one looked interesting as it was partially hidden by Sherlock’s foreskin which hung over the tip loosely, but it was the ladder which intrigued John most. Each was perfectly spaced and in uniform to one another as they travelled along the line of Sherlock’s bollocks down towards his perineum. John had a sudden urge to rub his finger across each ring but stopped himself from extending his hand; his eyes flicked up to Sherlock and he found two pools of blue-green staring at him.

“Shit, sorry Sherlock,” John grumbled. “I’ll go.”

“No. Stay. Please,” Sherlock responded quickly.

“I shouldn’t,” John flushed but realised he was rapidly stripping off his sweater, shirt and trousers leaving him in only vest and pants which did nothing to hide his erection as he climbed into bed beside his flatmate. Sherlock turned to his side and ran a finger across John’s nose and cheeks, cataloguing each pore and hair as his eyes scanned John’s features for anything to say no.

“Tell me this is what you want,” Sherlock pleaded, looking between John’s eyes and lips. “Please.”

“Yes,” John hissed, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him in for a deep and passionate kiss which was mostly teeth and tongue with no finesse. Sherlock growled and gripped John’s arms tightly as he keened into his mouth, opening wider and flicking his tongue into John’s mouth as their tongues tangled and slid against one another again and again as they fisted one another’s hair.

“You can touch,” Sherlock nodded before adding, “Carefully.”

John ran his fingers down Sherlock’s long throat and across his collarbone until he reached the peaked nipples complete with metal additions. John carefully traced his fingers across them and tugged lightly, all the time watching Sherlock’s reaction. The detective groaned and arched his back, pulling John in for another kiss which quickly became heated.

John skimmed his fingers along Sherlock’s stomach, feeling each quivering muscle as he worked his way _down, down, down_ towards the rapidly hardening shaft. Sherlock growled at the first contact of hot skin against John’s hand; his piercings rattled and clinked together as John began a steady rhythm of up and down. His fingers carefully rubbing over the entry point of the piercings as his curiosity was piqued and forced him to continue further down to Sherlock’s testicles.

“Careful of the bottom one,” Sherlock warned. “The others are okay.”

John nodded his understanding before cupping the sacs in his palm and feeling each cool metal ring beneath his fingers. He wanted to taste them, map out their path with his tongue before travelling further behind to give Sherlock the pleasure and bliss he deserved. He remembered his medical training on piercing care and realised he would have to abstain from sexual contact for at least six weeks whilst Sherlock healed, a time frame which seemed impossible now he finally had Sherlock’s bollocks in his hand.

The pair moved together for another kiss as John turned himself onto his side, pushing his own cock through the flies in his boxer shorts and lining it up with Sherlock’s. Their height difference made it tricky but after a little bit of awkwardness and giggles, the pair soon had their hands wrapped around one another and rutted wildly as they kissed.

Sherlock’s piercings felt so unusual against John’s skin that at first, he wasn’t entirely sure he liked the sensation; it was cold and foreign, so completely different to anything which John had experienced previously and it took a few moments for him to relax into the pleasure of Sherlock rubbing his callused thumb across his slit, smearing the plentiful precum over the plummy head. John followed Sherlock’s example and used his thumb to brush against Sherlock’s piercings and his slit until his digit was completely soaked with precum.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, forcing John to look up at his friend. Sherlock was flushed and panting with a beautiful and delicate pink blush across his cheeks, nose and ears. John smiled reassuringly and kissed Sherlock’s nose and chin before pulling away. “Okay?”

“Good,” Sherlock replied. “Too good.”

“No such thing,” John chuckled and kissed Sherlock tenderly as his hand picked up speed.

Sherlock’s spine arched and his breathing became ragged once more as John’s wrist twisted at the tip whilst he frotted his own cock against Sherlock’s hand and shaft.

“I’m close,” he admitted after a short moment of breathless gasping. “Sherlock, oh god!”

“Yes John, yes!” Sherlock cried, his eyes clamping shut as his orgasm washed over him and he tensed awkwardly. John was thankful of their height difference as Sherlock jerked forward, almost hard enough to head-butt John as he came over their hands and cocks as well as John’s abdomen. Feeling the hot, wet strands was too much for the doctor and caused him to immediately crest in orgasm. Rope after rope of creamy cum flowed from his prick and doused Sherlock’s skin as he wailed and grunted through his climax.

There was silence between the men as they came down from their highs and relaxed into a comfortable embrace with John's hand on Sherlock’s hip and Sherlock’s on John’s stomach. Neither man felt the need to speak or apologise as they smiled coyly at each other and kissed softly and gently, adoration evident in every flick of their tongues.

“Get some sleep” John whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled his nose into the crease of John’s jaw and neck as he yawned dramatically and pressed a lingering kiss to the slightly stubbled skin.

“Goodnight, my John.”

“Goodnight, my Sherlock.”


End file.
